


Detour

by thewaythatwerust



Series: Dreaming Wide Awake [3]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Bucky Barnes is a tease, Drunk Clint Barton, Established Relationship, Fluff, Human Disaster Clint Barton, Humor, Idiots in Love, Long suffering Bucky Barnes, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, Schmoop, Valentine's Day Fluff, but not as fun as Clint wants, shower fun times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:47:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22692784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaythatwerust/pseuds/thewaythatwerust
Summary: The last thing Bucky needs tonight is a drunk, naked, concussed Clint Barton. He knows that if left to his own devices, his boyfriend is likely to submit to gravity’s advances, again. Or, do something stupid like start dancing to YMCA while soaping himself up. Either way, the outcome is slipping, hitting his head, and knocking himself out. And as much as Bucky loathes to hinder karma, he is just too exhausted to spend the night in the emergency room, waiting for CT scans to come back to tell him what he already knows: there is a lot of abnormal activity going on in Clint’s brain. Acting as a shower chaperone is the lesser of two evils.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Dreaming Wide Awake [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1611283
Comments: 9
Kudos: 59





	Detour

**Author's Note:**

> i. Set in the Dreaming Wide Awake universe, but stands alone / does not need previous knowledge/fic consumption.
> 
> ii. For those with fic allergies, please be aware this story contains mentions of vomit for (hopefully) humorous purposes. It's worth mentioning I got 'eww' comments in Beta stages, but it ended with heart eyes emojis, soooo... if you can hold out, it gets better. ...Or, levels up to naked soapy fun times and soft idiots in love, at least. 
> 
> iii. While completely overkill for this silly little fic, it was nevertheless proudly double teamed by Beta extraordinaires FestiveFerret and Ashes0909, whose amazingness I do not deserve, and whose myriad of comments on this gave me life (though choking on water while reading them almost killed me).

Bucky’s eyes rake over the mess in front of him, and the grimace that has been fighting its way to the surface for the entire journey to their room finally wins the battle.

Slouching against the bathroom wall, with legs sprawling across the tiles, Clint isn’t paying him any attention - he’s too busy trying to recognize the contents of his stomach, currently on display across his shirt and jeans. Bucky’s attempts at wishing himself anywhere but here are interrupted by Clint’s delighted crowing.

“Corn! I haven’t eat’n corn since I was six. Think s’been hidin’ in there all this time, Buck?” Clint pushes a lone kernel around on his denim-covered thigh.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Bucky wonders if leaving Clint sitting here, covered in spilled beer, and glass shards, and vomit, is a viable option. It would serve him right.

Bucky’s aching body is screaming for sleep. All he had wanted for Valentine’s Day was to unwind after the mission --the three-day mission during which he got no sleep-- come home, have a few beers, and fall into bed with Clint. His night has taken somewhat of a detour.

Clint had started celebrating Bucky’s return well before he had actually returned, and without a supersoldier’s constitution, Clint had been three sheets to the wind before Bucky had finished his first drink. The glass shards littering Clint’s hair were courtesy of the assurance that he could, absolutely, juggle three beer bottles. And, to his credit, he could. But when Tony, celebrating Steve’s return with the same vigor as Clint, threw a fourth into the mix unexpectedly, amber shards rained down on the archer’s head like sharp, amber confetti.

Bucky runs his lower lip between his teeth, his moral compass spinning wildly. It stops on  _ should do  _ rather than  _ want to, _ as usual, and he sighs tiredly. After tonight, Barton is going to owe him big time. Again.

Running through the ways he plans to collect, Bucky squats down next to the drunken idiot better known as his boyfriend and starts tugging Clint’s arm through his shirt sleeve, avoiding the patches of sick where he can. Progress is slow but steady, but as he extricates Clint’s second arm, the archer lurches forward, sending them both toppling to the floor.

Sprawled on Bucky’s chest, Clint smiles down at him, goofily. “Heyyy, gorgeous. Whatcha doin’?” He dips forward, his lips puckered. Bucky turns his own just in time, and Clint’s mouth slides stickily against Bucky’s cheek rather than its intended target. The string of curses that flow from Bucky’s lips are long, loud, and very creative. Wiping his cheek, Bucky fights with his gag reflex, and only very narrowly claims victory.

“You. Need. A. Shower.” Bucky pushes the words out through clenched teeth as he lifts Clint back to a sitting position, unable to wipe the scowl from his face. He doesn’t have the energy to deal with this tonight, and yet...

Clint looks at him blankly, and after a moment of what looks like careful consideration, he shakes his head. “Nah, ’m good.”

“You’re covered in vomit.”

Looking down at his shirt, Clint wrinkles his nose. “Eww. Why’d you let someone puke on me, Barnes?”

Bucky sighs.

“S’not right, man.” Clint is shaking his head again. “S’not cool.”

“You vomited on yourself, Barton.”

“Yeah?” The accusing stare changes to one of suspicion.

“Yeah.”

Clint’s lips twist up thoughtfully, looking at his jeans. “Could n’ta been me.”

Pushing to his feet, wiping his hands on his jeans, Bucky can’t stop himself from asking, “Why’s that?”

Clint holds something up for Bucky to see. Something small and yellow. “I haven’t eat’n corn since I was six.”

Bucky’s eyes roll up as his lids fall down. It’s like dealing with a five-year-old. He tugs the shirt, none too gently, over Clint’s head, his patience rapidly shrinking to naught. “You are having a shower. You reek.”

Lifting Clint to his feet, Bucky keeps steadying hands over his ribs until he’s happy Clint is holding his own against gravity, then allows his hands to drop. “Alright, bird brain, time to lose the pants.”

Clint folds his arms over his now bare chest. “You tryin’ to take a’vantage of me?”

“Yeah, Barton, you have no idea how much the sight of you covered in vomit turns me on. It’s my secret kink.”

“Really?” Clint’s voice is a study in soft amazement.

Bucky clenches his jaw and counts to ten, very slowly. “No. No, not really. Just drop your pants.” Expecting a fight, he’s taken aback when Clint complies. He nods, pushes his pants down, and wobbles toward the shower. His feet tangle in the mess of denim, and Bucky reaches out to grab his arms. “Whoa, easy. Wait a minute.” 

Dropping to the floor, haunches to heels, Bucky works quickly to remove Clint’s shoes before coaxing less-than-steady legs out of the bunched fabric holding them hostage. The additional clothing is tossed in the vague direction of the already discarded shirt. Bucky straightens and eyes Clint assessingly. “Think you can handle the shower by yourself?”

“Pffff. O’course!” After two uneven steps forward, Clint fumbles, falling into Bucky. “Ah, sorry, world’s ‘bit spinny. Mistimed it. Lemme try ‘gain.”

Bucky holds his position patiently, but instead of pushing off his chest, Clint’s arms wrap around him, locking behind his back, humming sleepily as he rubs his cheek over Bucky’s black cotton shirt.

So that’s a no, then. Sighing, Bucky peels Clint off him, guides him to the towel rack, and places his hands on the aluminum rails - the last line of defense should gravity become a problem again. Bucky’s clothes quickly join Clint’s on the tiles by the hamper.   
  
The last thing he needs tonight is a drunk, naked, concussed Clint Barton. He knows that if left to his own devices, his boyfriend is likely to submit to gravity’s advances, again. Or, do something stupid like start dancing to YMCA while soaping himself up. Either way, the outcome is slipping, hitting his head, and knocking himself out. And as much as Bucky loathes to hinder karma, he is just too exhausted to spend the night in the emergency room, waiting for CT scans to come back to tell him what he already knows: there is a lot of abnormal activity going on in Clint’s brain. Acting as a shower chaperone is the lesser of two evils.

Bucky starts the waterflow and waits until steam hazes the air around them. Then, deciding the best course of action is the path of least resistance, Bucky lifts Clint and carries him into the shower, smirking at the high-pitched squeak of protest that earns him.

Using one hand to hold Clint steady after he lowers drunk, uncoordinated feet to the wet tiles, Bucky uses the other to grab a bottle of body wash from Clint’s truly excessive collection of brightly colored shower lotions. He flicks the cap with his thumb and upends the bottle. The smell of lime bursts into the air as he pours a string of neon-green liquid down Clint’s back.

Having exhausted his energy stores by being a belligerent little shit earlier, Clint’s arms wrap around Bucky’s waist, head lolling on his chest. Using one arm to take Clint’s weight, Bucky uses the other to spread the zesty wash over his arms, down his back and across the swell of his ass. Clint pushes back at that, but Bucky just swats him gently and raises his hand to rub the citrus-scented foam through Clint’s hair slowly, mindful of remaining glass fragments that may have survived his earlier metal hand dusting efforts.

Bucky spins Clint, enjoying the surprised intake of breath as his feet slide alarmingly on the slick tiles. Trapping Clint’s body against his, he curves his arm under Clint’s and presses it tightly over his chest. He adds more toxic-waste-looking goop over the newly available skin and lathers it everywhere within reach.

When he slides his hand over Clint’s balls, rubbing gently before moving up to stroke foamy fingers over his cock, Clint comes alive in his arms, suddenly having found his second wind. Bucky moves his hand slowly, rubbing the slick liquid over him, and Clint’s hips jerk forward into the touch.

“Ahh, yeah, Buck.” Clint drops his head back, swelling under Bucky’s fingers.

Clint whines when Bucky’s hand lifts to change the angle of the showerhead, making water rain down over Clint’s chest, washing his skin free of suds.

Spinning Clint around again, Bucky holds him out under the full pressure of the water, grinning as Clint splutters his disapproval. Reaching up to run his hand through Clint’s hair, now plastered to his head, Bucky checks for lingering glass shards. His motions send another wave of bubbles fleeing down Clint’s body.  
  
Satisfied that Clint is as clean as he’s going to get, given the circumstances, Bucky shuts off the faucet and nudges the shower door open. He ignores the flailing hands on his back when he hauls Clint over his shoulder and carries him toward the bed, stopping only to snag a clean towel. Bucky doesn’t want to tempt fate, not with Clint’s track record with slippery surfaces.

The grumbling stops when he sets Clint on the carpet next to the bed. If he falls here, it won’t hurt too much, and Bucky will have no guilt about leaving the moron on the floor to let him sleep it off - the carpet is plenty plush enough. He might even throw him a pillow.

Bucky isn’t sure he’s relieved or disappointed when luck sides in Clint’s favor and gravity gives him a pass. He runs the towel over Clint’s wet body and scrubs at his hair before doing the same for himself, spending extra time drying the metal plates of his arm.

Too tired to fight Clint into clothes, Bucky opts instead to sweep the covers back on the bed, jerking his head toward the mattress. “Bedtime.”

“Not tired.” Clint’s hands run up Bucky’s chest and lock around his neck as he leans close. Bucky can feel the hard line of Clint’s arousal pressing against him. “Dontcha want your welcome home present?” Clint murmurs, grinding his hips.

“I wanted nothing more than to fuck you senseless when I got home,” Bucky growls low into Clint’s ear. “Too bad you went and made yourself senseless before I had the chance.” His fingers press into Clint’s waist as he lifts him from the carpet and tosses him gently onto the bed. 

Bucky stalks to his side of the bed, slips between the covers, and turns on his side, facing Clint. “But, if you’re good and go to sleep now, I’ll let you make it up to me in the morning.”

Clint pushes himself to a sitting position, eyes moving from Bucky’s face to his own hand, now curled around the base of his cock, weighing his options. He whines. “But  _ Bucky _ . I’m hard.”

Bucky’s eyes fall to Clint’s hand, and the tendril of guilt in his belly uncoils when he sees the drunken erection is already flagging. He grabs Clint’s pillow from behind his back and whacks him softly in the face, chuckling as he falls back onto the bed. “Yeah, hard to live with.” Wrapping an arm around Clint’s chest, he drags his boyfriend close, closing his eyes as he presses a soft kiss to Clint’s shoulder. “Lucky for you, you’re easy to love.”

Clint huffs but snuggles into the embrace, his contented humming quickly giving way to soft snores. Bucky’s own breathing evens out as he follows Clint into sleep, a soft smile tugging at his lips. The night might have taken a bit of a detour, but he's found his way home in the end.


End file.
